


that girl's in love with you

by clairelutra (exosolarmoon)



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, OT3, Other, Pre-OT3, Pre-Threesome, Prompt Fic, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Self-cest, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - F/F/M, Time Travel, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8041615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exosolarmoon/pseuds/clairelutra
Summary: i don't mind company
  
  well, not officially
  
  but when she sits next to you
  
  you don't realize
  
  that girl's in love with you
AU where the second Ladybug didn't disappear after Timebreaker.Sin outtakes from a fic that hasn't been written. ♪~ ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ(you probably need to read time ≠ water by isadorator first for this to make sense ;;;; )





	that girl's in love with you

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [time ≠ water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954243) by [isadorator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isadorator/pseuds/isadorator). 



> *clears throat*  
> *deep breath*  
> I FINALLY HAVE THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY TO NAME A FIC AFTER ONE OF MY FAVORITE SONGS  
> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH
> 
> *coughs*
> 
> ...
> 
> *inhales*
> 
> listen.
> 
> this is my ship
> 
> i will lie here in the trash heap with it
> 
> i accept my fate
> 
>  
> 
> ~~on hiatus, sorry dora >.<~~

She dreams of laughter.

She dreams of it on her parents’ faces and under Alya’s breath, permeating the air between classes she can no longer attend and in her own lungs, lilting over the city, courtesy of Paris’ _original_ duo.

(It has been _so long_ since Marinette’s laughed. She can smile and smirk and joke, put on a good front to reassure Chat and Coccinelle that she’s just fine, but laughter…

She knows that if she tried to laugh, it would fall flat, fake and false, stale like the air in her lungs, and then they would _know_. And that would be terrible.)

She dreams of chasing it down their laughing mouths (strong and brave and proud and so _bright_ she can’t stand to look at either of them), down _his_ laughing mouth (Chat’s? Adrien’s? Does it matter?), lips on lips and noses against cheeks, eyelashes fluttering over skin and moans caught in throats.

She’s greedy and aching and so, so alone, in a strange bed in a strange room in a strange home that isn’t hers, will never be hers, no matter how long she’s here. Nothing is truly _hers_ anymore — not her friends or her family or her life — and she’d never realized the simple state of _ownership_ was such a luxury.

There’s no one she can turn to, not really. Her parents don’t know she exists, her friends _can’t_ know she exists, Master Fu is kind but very much a stranger, and Chat and Coccinelle…

She can’t ask.

Not them.

(She knows Chat, and she knows herself; if she ever let on how much this was getting to her, they’d never forgive themselves. It’s the only thing keeping her from hating them both.)

She curls tighter into the thick blankets, _2:24_ blinking on the digital clock beside the bed. She aches she aches _she aches_ — her head, her core, her limbs — and she wants out. She doesn’t dare turn on a light in this alien place, doesn’t dare attempt to disturb the overwhelming silence, so she lies there and dreams.

She dreams of laughter, of things that were and are no longer, and of what might happen if she could tell them, could talk to them both without fear or reservation.

She dreams of what they might say, what they might do if she said, _I’m cold._

If she said, _I’m so, so alone._

If she said, _Touch me, touch me, hold me, please._

_I’ll do anything you want, anything, please, just hold me, I’m so **alone.**_

They’d stop laughing. She knows that much.

 _But what if they didn’t?_ she asks herself, rolling over and breathing in the clean, cold, strange air, forcing away the image of their faces crumpling in horror and guilt and shame.

She replaces it with the thought of their hands on her skin, Chat’s nails scritching her scalp as he pets her hair and Coccinelle’s understatedly powerful embrace. Thinks of what their arms, their bodies might feel like pressed against her sides, snug and solid and present.

She pulls the thought down around her, digging herself deeper into the fantasy, distracting herself with wondering their hot, damp breath would feel like against her neck. 

(There’s an awful, sickly non-heat sitting in her bones, fogging her mind, leeching her energy and keeping her from sleep, and she chases the pangs in her heart, praying that they’ll push away the haze.)

Dream-Coccinelle’s lips brush her pulse, Dream-Chat’s purr rumbles in his chest, and four hands stroke her skin, brushing away the hopelessness like cobwebs, and Marinette pushes herself still deeper into the dream.

Gloved hands sliding under her nightclothes, over her stomach to brush the undersides of her breasts, hot butterfly kisses over her wrists, her throat, her palms, nosing behind her ears and through her hair, nearly-not-quite innocent affection administered directly to her lonely, lonely heart.

Lithe bodies pinning her upright in the kindest hug, black claws marking her thighs and cool, nimble red fingers soothing the marks — _or, no,_ she thinks, rolling over again and refusing to touch the need she can feel building in her core, _the other way around: Coccinelle’s blunt nails scraping through her gloves and Chat’s hot palms pressing against the sting_ — her shirt rucked up to the armpits and her breasts resting against the chest of the hero in front of her, a barrier of red or black, she can’t decide.

Dream-Marinette arches, and so does the real one, ripping at the edges of the fantasy and bringing her a little closer to reality. She beats that awful reality back, grabbing the incorporeal hero in front of her for a kiss — a _real_ kiss, not little splinters of touch, of heat. (It’s Chat in front of her, she decides then, Chat she opens herself to, Chat’s tongue that slides against her own, Chat’s suit she’s pressing her bare belly against.)

It’s a fast kiss, she decides, biting her lip and curling up again, hands anywhere but clamped between her thighs. Fast, but not hard, and it slows as it continues, a hum or a groan rumbling wonderfully against her breasts. She considers dismissing the Dream-Coccinelle, considers having Chat all to herself, but then she considers the solid, living, breathing support cradling her from behind, the cool, electric touch removing Marinette’s clothing article-by-article, and decides she likes that better.

She imagines the kiss slowing, heating, imagines Coccinelle’s hands sliding into her sleep shorts and exploring what she finds there, imagines jerking at the touch, pleasure blossoming under fingers that were once her own.

She imagines Chat’s hands joining the fray, stroking down her back and into her clothing from behind, taking handfuls of her ass and _squeezing_ as he kisses her.

Marinette curls up tighter, the pressure of her position providing only the smallest bit of relief, and, in exchange, it feeds the yawning emptiness that’s mounting and mounting and mounting inside her.

But _mounting_ makes her think of Chat, Chat between her thighs and Chat much less dressed than he had been.

It makes her think of Coccinelle shucking off Marinette’s sleep shorts in one deft movement, makes her think of strong, gloved red hands holding her up, holding her open.

It makes her think of something hot and hard pressing against her entrance, makes her crave the burn and ecstasy of being parted, stretched, _taken_.

It makes her think of Chat sinking into her, inch by inch, deeper and deeper, the heat of him searing away the bone-deep chill, the loneliness, the hopeless longing, until _he’s_ all that’s left inside her—

“… _Mnngh!_ ”

Marinette jolts, clamping a hand to her mouth in horror as waves of pleasure static-shock away the awful, sticky non-temperature, her tiny noise deadened in the empty room.

She’s panting, she realizes, core twitching deliciously with every move she makes, her nipples stiff, sensitive, aching sweetly with every heaving breath. She’s panting, but the peace of the strange, foreign house is undisturbed.

She slumps, relaxing against the mattress and releasing a soft sigh. The ache, the want, the hopelessness are all still there, encroaching once again now that she’s no longer distracted, but the edge has been taken off. The insomnia has loosened its hold, and she can feel sleep finally start to stake its claim.

 _If only,_ she thinks, letting herself slip down, down, down, letting the fantasy slip away, letting the absence of it leave her colder. _If only._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Anastomosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152981) by [joisbishmyoga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joisbishmyoga/pseuds/joisbishmyoga)
  * [Double trouble](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12087657) by [UnknowableLegend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknowableLegend/pseuds/UnknowableLegend)




End file.
